


the calM before the storM

by 8ucky8arnes



Series: fragMents [16]
Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Gen, Season 2 spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8ucky8arnes/pseuds/8ucky8arnes
Summary: Droplets of water fell onto his skin and he closed his eyes, tilting his face up as it began to pour, not caring if the rain soaked through his clothes and plastered his hair to his neck. It wasn’t like he could feel the cold anyway…At that moment, there was something almost symbolic about standing in the midst of the storm, like the moniker he’d been given had come alive in the sky above his head, warning him of the fight to come and reminding him of his purpose as a leader and a soldier…





	the calM before the storM

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that this took so long. Once again, I had to rewrite this piece a couple of times until I was (somewhat) satisfied with the result. Let me know what you guys think!
> 
> Trigger warnings for violent thoughts, depression, and suicidal thoughts.

The others had gone downstairs hours ago, leaving him alone.

John listened to the rumbling thunder, the flashes of lightning reminiscent of Marcos’ flare just hours before and that ever-present guilt churned his stomach at the memory of how he’d lashed out, forcing himself to set down the tomahawk and sharpening stone before he crushed them in his fists.

_“John…”_

He squeezed his eyes shut as her voice echoed in the air, biting back a choked sob as the tears trailed silently down his face. A vice gripped his chest and it felt as though his ribcage would actually break under the pressure and finally finish off what was left of his heart.

How it still beat was a mystery to him…

“I’m sorry, Clarice.” John shook his head, voice cracking, “I’m so sorry.”

But her ghost was silent once more.

He opened his eyes as the thunder boomed, the black clouds moving across the sky with bursts of purple-white light, and he remembered the first thunderstorm after he’d manifested, how the combination of light and sound had been so painful to his newly enhanced senses…

He’d gladly take that pain over the…hell, he’d take _anything_ over the gaping hole in the chest.

John shook himself from those thoughts, forcing himself to return to the repetitive sharpening of the tomahawk against the stone. He knew it was well past the point of completion, but it kept him from bruising his hands further. Kept him from drowning in memories of her. Kept him from being completely useless…

He took a deep breath as another cool breeze tugged at his hair, the scent of rain in the air unable to mask the lingering smell of her skin and lavender shampoo. His hands faltered, lightning catching the edge of the blade and turning it silver.

John ran a thumb along the curve of the tomahawk.

The last time he’d held it, he’d hoped he’d never have cause to use it because despite what most thought, he’d never enjoyed the use of lethal force. He’d killed in Afghanistan because he had to, because he had to protect his people, his brothers, at all costs and it was simple as that.

He’d been sorely tempted before, though, with Roderick Campbell. The man had taken so much from him; turned Gus’ brilliant light into an unrecognizable shadow for his powers and put a bullet through Sonya’s heart without even blinking. Two people he loved gone.

_Three now._

Clarice’s laughter reverberated through him like thunder, her beautiful smile and vibrant eyes like a battering ram to his chest. The sound of her knees hitting the concrete, the bright red of her blood splattering across his face as the bullets tore through her…

The memories flashed through his mind like forks of lightning, igniting something in him he’d thought died after Evangeline had dragged him out of Tucson years ago. A creature that had fed on the blood and the _violence_ of those fights. That had gloried in the breaking of bone under his fists and the fear in those men’s eyes every time his lips had curled into a cold smile. A darkness that had channeled all his anger and grief and pain in the worst possible way, turning him into something that made him unrecognizable even to himself.

Something unredeemable and unworthy of forgiveness.

Undeserving of love.

“ _It’s just my whole life, I’ve been running from myself, from everything, really. And now, now I’m here with you, and I just feel…I don’t know, I just feel…”_

_“Happy?”_

_“But sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve to be.”_

The conversation was one he’d played over and over again in his head like some torturous symphony, every nuance of her features and her words picked apart. She’d looked so beautiful under the purple light of her portal, so beautiful and so sad as she stared at the stars and wondered aloud about how she’d thought about going nowhere yet being everywhere.

_“In the spaces between everything.”_

Maybe that was what he’d seen in that alley. Maybe he’d seen her disappearing through the portal into that in-between space that he would ever be able to find, no matter how many walls he tore through. Maybe she’d finally gotten her wish after all…

Yet the thoughts brought him no comfort.

She was still gone and all he had now were the memories of a woman he could no longer hold and dreams of a future that never could be and they were almost worse than any nightmare his mind seemed fit to conjure.

Reality had always been so much crueler. Giving him love not once, but three times before ripping them all away. But not again. _Never_ again. Clarice would be the last person he loved.

The last person he’d fail.

He spun the tomahawk in his hand as that cold detachment started to sink in, easing the agony and the guilt in him by promising him an outlet for it in the coming morning. Promising him a way to accomplish his task and fulfill his need for payback in a way that would actually be useful to the upcoming fight and John didn’t bother pushing back against the whispers.

Revenge wouldn’t be what Clarice wanted, he knew that. She’d never ask him to kill in her name, never ask him to give up his morals. It wasn’t who _she_ was. It wasn’t who he was because no matter how bad things had gotten, he’d always had someone by his side to remind him of all he’d had to live for. Now he was broken and untethered from all that had held him back, the light that Clarice had embodied snuffed out when Turner had pulled the trigger.

The man had signed his death with Clarice’s blood and he wouldn’t live past tomorrow.

None of those Purifiers would.

They’d finally get the war they’d always wanted. They would see what a _real_ fight with mutants was all about, what happened when the people they’d call freaks and monsters and menaces had finally had enough. They would finally know what it felt like to be truly afraid, to _really_ fear for their lives, to be hunted down like animals.

John would make sure of that.

He didn’t care if he damned himself in the process.

There was nothing left in him to save. Nothing left to redeem.

His heart had disappeared through that portal as well as every reason he had to come back. To come home. There was no home to be found in that apartment now. No light or happiness. Only memories and sensations remained, a minefield of his own making that tore into him like shrapnel and brought nothing but pain.

Droplets of water fell onto his skin and he closed his eyes, tilting his face up as it began to pour, not caring if the rain soaked through his clothes and plastered his hair to his neck. It wasn’t like he could feel the cold anyway…

At that moment, there was something almost symbolic about standing in the midst of the storm, like the moniker he’d been given had come alive in the sky above his head, warning him of the fight to come and reminding him of his purpose as a leader and a soldier…

“I figured you’d still be up here.”

_Lorna._ He opened his eyes, not looking at her, “Where else would I be?”

She leaned against the ledge, “Sleeping maybe.”

“I don’t need sleep. I’m fine.”

“The bags under your eyes say something else.” She put a hand on his arm, squeezing until he felt it and looked at her. Her eyes roamed over his face, mouth pulling down at whatever she saw, “If you don’t want to go back to your place, I’m sure Marcos wouldn’t mind you coming over-”

“Lorna…”

“Or least let me get you some dry clothes.” She pulled at the shirt sticking to his skin with a look that could only be described as motherly concern, “Just because you can’t feel the cold…”

He bit back a sigh, “I don’t want to be in the way.”

“The three of us have shared smaller quarters before and you and I both know that Marcos wouldn’t mind.” She stepped back, holding out a hand, “So come on. You don’t even have to sleep just…come inside.”

He looked at her hand, then up at her. “Okay.”

She waved the door open, “Let’s go then.”

Grabbing the tomahawk and stone, he followed her inside. He braced himself for the flashes of her, but it didn’t completely block out the ache of seeing her in every step he took.

_Her head thrown back in laughter…_

_Her hand in his, head resting on his shoulder…_

_Her fingers running through his hair…_

“John?”

Blinking, he shook his head and found himself hovering in the open doorway with Lorna looking over her shoulder from inside the apartment with concern as the rainwater created a puddle under him.

“You with me?”

He nodded, finally stepping over the threshold.

Clarice’s presence wasn’t as strong here, but it was still felt…

“I’ll go grab some clothes from your place, alright?”

He nodded again, not really sure what to say as Lorna left and Marcos came into the living room. John was grateful Marcos didn’t ask if he was alright or why he was soaking wet, just handed him a couple of towels without a word.

Lorna came back shortly after, holding out clothes. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, for getting these.”

She smiled at him sadly, knowing _why_ he’d avoided his apartment. “Go get changed.”

Toeing off his boots, he made his way to the bathroom and a part of him felt guilty… _ashamed_ even because it felt like he was taking advantage of his friends, bringing all his problems into their home because he was too weak to deal with them on his own.

He pushed the thoughts aside, throwing the wet clothes into the tub and changing into the dry ones. He squeezed the excess water from his hair before hanging to the towel on the rack and walking back out into the living room.

Marcos had two mugs of coffee in hand, Lorna leaving a clear spot on the couch.

John felt slightly awkward under their scrutiny as he sat down, not realizing how long he’d been up on his feet until that until he nearly sighed in relief. He took the proffered mug from Marcos, no doubt drinking the scalding liquid too quickly if the shared look between the couple was anything to go by.

Marcos returned to the kitchen.

She tucked one leg underneath her, pulling a hair tie off her wrist, “Here.”

He pulled his hair back, finally registered the knives and sharpening stone she’d set alongside his on the coffee table. John looked at them and then at her, the woman regarding him with an odd mix of humor and concern.

She motioned to the table, “Well, go on then.”

“I thought you wanted me to sleep.”

Lorna pulled the knives from their sheaths, “Who are we kidding? I don’t think anyone is sleeping right now. And I know sharpening these calms me as much as it does you so I figured I’d get you inside, keep you dry and keep your hands busy.”

He took his tomahawk and stone off the table, “I…I appreciate that Lorna.”

She gave him a small smile.

Marcos came back out to the sight of them sharpening their weapons in silence. Leaning against the kitchen table, he watched them both for a couple heartbeats before finally speaking, “You guys do know how unnerving that is right?”

Lorna’s laugh had John finally cracking a smile.

“You know, babe, you could always help me out.”

“And cut up my hands? I’ll pass.” He leaned over the back of the couch, kissing her on the cheek and squeezing John’s shoulder before standing. “I’ll see you two in the morning then?”

Lorna nodded.

John cleared his throat, “Yeah…and thanks, Marcos.”

Marcos smiled, “No thanks necessary, brother.”

It was moments like this where he’d almost forgotten how well these two knew him, knew his mind in times like these. How sitting in companionable silence meant more to him than a forced conversation that would only frustrate them all.

They were his family…the few that remained anyways and he was not going to lose them like he lost everyone else. He would protect them all from becoming another casualty in this seemingly endless war. Lorna. Marcos. The Struckers.

John would make sure they lived through this find.

No matter what it cost him in the end.


End file.
